The Fates Design
by feelslikesharks
Summary: Mother Gothel had incentive to protect the flower which gave her youth - it was the only gift she had from her former lover. With her song, she could stay young and live with him from afar. Together, they will live forever.
1. Chapter 1

The Fates' Design

Chapter 1

People no longer believe in the ancient myths and legends. They disregard the gods of old as coping mechanisms, as creative outlets, as explanations for a pre-scientific era; myths are to entertain and to teach, not reflect reality. But the gods are still present, though unable to interact with us as tangibly as before due to the lack of faith. They still ordain the universe and its minutest details in accordance with the Fates, always hoping to return to the earth to delight in their creation and live amongst their beloved mortals, for however brief a time.

One girl dared to believe in the sun. This is their story.

* * *

Her favorite place had always been the woods, the shadows lingering off the sun-tipped branches, hovering over a mumbling stream. She ran into them and through them in the early morning, ready to spend the day studying the lush flora, comparing each specimen to the drawings in her book. The first entries came from her great-grandmother, and then the next were her grandmother's, and so it had passed down the line of first-born daughters. Each wrote in a different ink, revising previous notes and adding new information when possible. The women detailed which herbs were safe to eat, which flowers fatally tricked its recipient, all that they could discover about the plants around them.

Brigitte's nimble fingers thumbed through the pages until she found the drawing of the rampion, its delicate petals pressed in alongside her grandmother's matching violet scrawl: _Rampion, a bellflower variant. Edible root. Blooms from May through September, prefers dry meadows and forests. Also known as "rapanculus" due to its root looking like a "little turnip" (Lat.). _

Beside it was her mother's strawberry jotting. _This is one of my favorite flowers. Not too showy, and delicious, too._ Brigitte pulled out her quill and her jar of elderberry ink, a deep maroon._Mine, too, Mama. They thrive in our secret place__. _An unsummoned tear barely missed the wet ink, falling upon the dried petals. The young girl left her note to dry as she ambled through the oak thicket, fingers stroking the flowers and stems along her path.

She walked on and began to hum her father's wordless tune, one her mother had sung to her as a baby. He couldn't remember the words, nor could he have read them if there were any; yet still he heard his wife's lilting melody drifting through the candlelight and up to the heavens.

Now it was their secret song, to keep them company in her mother's absence. He sang it to her as he shook the dirt from her bouncing black curls; she sang it to him when his hazel eyes refused to see a world without his wife; and they sang it to each other, in the meadow of her burial, as they laid down fresh rampion tributes every year.

Brigitte had come upon a swollen stream, and she knelt in the muddy ground to cool her face. She thought to take a sip, but she could never be too careful. Instead she sprawled upon the softened earth and ate a few blueberries from within her satchel. They popped against her teeth and gently stained them, washing away with a swipe of her tongue. As her feet dangled behind her, her stomach pressed against the ground, she saw it, the poisonous traitor, growing on the stream's banks.

Her mother had believed it to be parsnip, an easy mistake due to the shared white tuberous roots and of course the odor. But hadn't her mother noticed the sickly amber liquid dripping? Parsnips burnt uncovered skin but they never had yellow dripping. Her mother hadn't known as she stopped alongside the stream and ate the deceptive root, the sun flitting in and out of the breezy shadows in a frenzy. Not an hour later, the error seized her mother's body, the life trembling through her fingertips as she struggled to make it back to the stream to wash out the toxins. Her legs failed to support her as she resorted to crawling, pursuing the insistent sunlight as it led her along, yet weakening in its strength. Her senses were overcome and she lay on her back in the moist earth, staring up from her meadow and beyond the forest into the clouds. Needles pricked her forearms and her shins, and her dry mouth yearned for rain, for anything. Clasping the roots of her favored rampion, she shuddered and slowly felt the earth swell and then –

Brigitte stamped out the murderous plant, lashing out useless insults. She flattened it with her feet, she tore it out of the ground and stripped the plant of its leaves and skin before finally shredding it. The remains dropping from her hands, Brigitte stumbled over to a nearby tree, pausing to recollect herself in the sheltered sunlight. Sobs and sighs shook themselves from her lips and her nails dug into the bark of the tree. It had only been three years, and already her mother seemed more like a figment than a once-tangible creature, someone she could touch and hold and cling. She was losing her more and more every day. Eventually she'd forget her glinting green eyes, the crinkles in her dimples as she laughed, her graceful waltz while she cooked dinner. All that would remain would be Brigitte herself and the book.

The book! She'd almost forgotten it in her sadness. Wiping the last few tears from her mottled cheeks, Brigitte found her way back to the book, finding her inscription dry beside her mother's. She felt the stiff leaves of the rampion before slowly shutting the book. The sun seemed to grow brighter, eliciting the slightest upturn of her mouth. It was as if it was trying to cheer her up by increasing its heat and magnificence. It almost worked. Almost.

Glancing at the sky, she decided it was time to head home and make supper for her and her father.


	2. Chapter 2

The Fates' Design

Chapter 2

Though there would still be hours of daylight, Brigitte knew it best to be home earlier than later. She had gotten lost in the woods more than once, despite her familiarity with the area, for the longer she lingered the further she roamed, beyond what she'd mapped in her head. Rummaging in her knapsack, she pulled out her mother's book and leafed through the pages until she found a match for the mushrooms she saw before her. Checking and double-checking the edibility of the roots, she plucked them from the ground and moved on.

When Brigitte arrived home, there seemed a strange air about it; nothing looked out of place and yet there was the slightest tinge of unrest as she passed through the threshold. She noticed an errant bag laid near the washbasin, a crumpled towel on the floor, and last of all, the tell-tale worn shoes fermenting by the fireplace. "Not her again." Brigitte could hardly stand her aunt – of course she was as polite as she could bear, since Helena was her mother's sister, but the woman teetered upon insanity. Strict, demanding, and completely overbearing, it seemed improbable she could have come from the same genetic heritage as the gentle spirit that was her mother.

Removing the mushrooms and placing them upon the table, Brigitte tucked her bag underneath her bed and began preparing dinner. A mushroom stew was nothing fancy but it was more difficult to procure meat than to scavenge the forest. Once she had set the kettle in the fireplace, she walked around the back of the one-room cottage to gather water from the well and collect the firewood for the evening. The rhythmic thudding of her father's axe paused as he wiped his forehead, placing the blade on the stump. "So what did you find today?"

"Nothing much. I studied, and I had to visit Mama again. But I did grab some mushrooms for dinner."

"Ah, now that's a good girl."

Brigitte briefly smiled, as she loved hearing her father's praises. She turned to go fetch the water and her father went back to his work, but her uneasiness got the better of her and she faced her father again. "Papa, what exactly is Aunt Helena doing here?"

Her father faltered as he swung his axe over his shoulder, slowly laying it down and motioning for Brigitte to come to him. He placed his rough hands on her shoulders, looking her intently in the eye. "Now, you know the past few months have been hard on us. It's hard enough for me to have good work without having to raise a young lady."

"But, Papa, I already know about being a lady. I-"

"Do ladies interrupt their father?"

"No, Papa," Brigitte sighed.

He relaxed his grip on her and backed away. "And that's why your aunt is here. To help you mature so you don't have to work all your life like your mother and me."

"What if I want to do what Mama did? What if I want to help people? I know so much already but there's so much more to discover!" Brigitte pleaded. She knew what was expected – appear sophisticated enough to marry up, or at least marry a pastor so she could have her own parish and not be a burden on her father. The last few months had taught her how to keep up a home, as best as she could for her age. Surely her father didn't want her gone.

Her father looked down at the grass stems quivering in the wind. He didn't truly wish his daughter to leave him, but she deserved a better life than he could offer, and her mother's profession wasn't much in the way of earning respect, and certainly not a husband. At best, she'd be known as helpful witch. At worst, she could be burned as a sorceress. "Please, do this for me. It is what's best."

Brigitte couldn't help but feel sympathetic, reaching out for his hands. "Alright, Papa. I will become a lady." They both smiled at this, though she could not resist adding, "Well, as much can be expected of a woodsman's daughter." Her father lightly chuckled and mussed her hair, glancing at her briefly before picking up a few logs of firewood for her. She went to the well and retrieved two buckets.

As she poured the water into the kettle, and her father started the fire, he couldn't help but feel pride in all she had accomplished without her mother. Her meals had greatly improved in the past two months as she ventured into the forest and made new discoveries. Though not thoroughly savvy she was better at navigating the market now and even managed to bargain for some meat every now and then. And now, though she strongly wanted to help others – just like her mother, rest her soul – she was sacrificing it to ease her father's troubles. He knew just the thing to encourage her.

Brigitte was stirring in the spices when she heard her father address her.

"Brigitte, you know how thankful I am for your efforts in keeping this house in order." He could see she wanted to interject but she held her tongue, already trying to placate herself. "But how could I expect you to become a lady in such a dress?"

"What do you mean? This is just fine. Mama and I made it and – "

She gasped as her father pulled out a forest green gown from the oak chest at the foot of his bed. The ladle rested on the side of the kettle as Brigitte approached the gown, reaching out for the fabric. Her father stepped back with the gown in hand.

"Now, if you don't want this, it's fine. It is for a lady, after all."

"But it's so lovely. May I have it, Papa? Please?"

He smiled down at her, pushing the dress forward so her fingers could relish the texture. Velvety and smooth and cool, the gown was more luxurious than anything her family owned. Confused, she drew back her hand and gazed quizzically up at her father. "Where did you get this? You'd never be able to afford it."

"It was your mother's and it was made to be yours, once you came of age. I suppose that time is now."

Brigitte giddily flung her arms around her father, knocking him back a step and he dropped the dress to return the embrace. "Oh, thank you, thank you. I'll take good care of it, I promise."

"I know you will. Now, I'll finish the stew while you wash up. You know how your aunt is. She should be home any moment now. Go, go."

Brigitte picked up the dress and stored it in her own small chest, carefully folding it and setting it on top of everything else. Though she normally dreaded the sight of her aunt, her mother's gown inspired her to try to do her best. She rushed outside to fetch another pail of water, scrubbing herself until she imagined herself gleaming as the moon. She even tried to brush her hair, but her unruly curls bounced and settled in their own way. She felt presentable and radiant and confident enough to begin her tutelage under her aunt.

But Aunt Helena had plans of her own.


End file.
